


Photography | Opening

by beyondcanon



Series: Photography [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, F/F, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:03:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1611071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondcanon/pseuds/beyondcanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn does invite Rachel to her NY opening. Rachel does invite Quinn for dinner afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Photography | Opening

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my [prompt challenge](http://beyondcanon.tumblr.com/tagged/ma%27s-prompt-challenge) on Tumblr. Some stories will be posted on AO3; this is one of them.
> 
> By the structure of the challenge, each part of the Photography series is a standalone, complete installment. I might add more to it at anytime; I suggest you subscribe. :)

The process of going through Rachel’s photos is excruciating.

She’s out of your grasp, you try to remember.

She’s also the right kind of stunning.

When the Vogue team sends the final version, Rachel looks perfect, skin smooth as marble, eyes bright and focused.

You can’t really stop yourself when you mail them to her.

—

She gets home and there’s a package for her.

The sound of the package being ripped apart is the only sound in her trendy, empty apartment.

Rachel smiles, placing both hands on her dinner table as she stares at herself in black and white.

She’s never looked like this before, through Quinn’s eyes. She’s focus and strength and she looks gorgeous.

 _Consider it a late Christmas gift,_  the note says, with an invitation to the Urban Rhythms exposition in NY.

There’s a part of her deeply satisfied that Quinn has taken the time to remember her.

—

It’s all ritual by now.

You’re used to the media buzz, to the glass of white wine resting on your left hand as you swim through the crowd and greet your colleagues, collectors, and answers questions from the local press.

You keep your heart still, refusing to scan the room for Rachel.

—

Quinn is still the most fascinating person in the room.

Rachel sees how she commands attention, how she smiles the right smile, how people are drawn to her, the elegance in her black dress shirt and high heels.

She takes advantage of one of the rare moments Quinn’s left alone to approach her.

Her hand reaches for Quinn’s elbow and runs a soft path to Quinn’s shoulder. “Hi,” she says, very aware of the twitch on Quinn’s arm.

“You made it,” Quinn answers with a smile, placing a hand on Rachel’s waist.

Rachel can feel its warmth through her own dress; the tip of her tongue darts to moisten her lower lip.

“Of course I did,” she says, her entire body turned to Quinn, tuned on her reaction.

“I hope it’s not too boring,” she says, her eyes still very much locked with Rachel. Her thumb caresses Rachel’s hip tenderly, and Rachel is already a little out of breath.

“It’s beautiful,” she says. Her own hand rests timidly on Quinn’s arm, not moving. “Your work is amazing.”

Quinn’s lips are so very red. “Can I show you around?”

“Please do,” Rachel says, intertwining her arm with Quinn’s.

—

You know this is wrong.

You should know your boundaries and avoid diving too deep.

But Rachel is there, for you, and she’s so beautiful in her black dress, so eager for your attention…

Her short nails scratch your inner forearm as you take her around. You try not to shiver at the contact, to ignore the feeling of your bodies brushing as you walk side by side.

You entertain her with the general concept of that exposition, the need to capture a city of concrete and desolation, how the setting transforms and complements the feeling.

She nods to your words; sometimes her breasts graze your arm when she leans in to take a closer look at some piece.

Your entire body aches in melancholy.

—

She’s there when the event is about to end.

She’s waiting.

“I thought maybe I could take you to dinner,” she tells Quinn, “if you don’t have other plans.”

Quinn studies her face; it’s unsettling. “I don’t.”

Rachel’s heart beats faster.

—

You let Rachel do most of the talking.

There’s so much you don’t know. Rachel’s at the sweet spot of fame, free to do what she chooses and collecting the rewards of a few hit movies and a solid career in Broadway.

Life has found a balance for her.

It makes you happy.

You share dessert with her, enjoying how her lips close around the spoon in delight. You ask if there’s someone special – you need to know, you need to be sure, you’ve heard the gossip – and she shakes her dead.

“I’m too focused on my career,” she tells you, and the air hangs suddenly too thick.

You try to think of something to say, but you can’t.

“What about you,” she asks, her hand brushing against yours on the table. “With your looks there’s got to be a line of suitors.”

Your breath feels shallow. “I haven’t found anyone,” you say, because maybe you did and you couldn’t realize in time.

You don’t want to spoil what little you have now.

—

The waiter asks for her autograph and says his wife thinks Rachel is better than Barbra Streisand.

Rachel smiles, her cheeks warming with Quinn’s gaze on her, and she signs her name on a piece of paper.

“You’re famous,” Quinn teases before finishing her drink.

The waiter leaves the check and takes their plates.

Rachel doesn’t want it to be over.

She covers Quinn’s hand with hers when he comes back. “My town, my check.”

Quinn stares at their joined hands before sighing. “Rachel, really—“

Rachel grabs Quinn’s hand and their eyes lock. “You can’t stop me.”

Quinn’s hands are so soft. Rachel regrets having to release them to grab her credit card.

—

You hold your breath.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Rachel says, standing a little too close to you on the street.

“I’m right here,” you say, your chest constricted with the little time there’s left and the way she looks at you.

She shakes her head. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

Maybe she’s a little dizzy from the wine, because she holds your coat and you’re almost pressed together.

“I am,” you agree softly, your hands in your pockets.

“Come to my place,” she asks you, “and we’ll have a last drink.”

You frown and hesitate; you’re afraid of the possibility.

“Please,” Rachel whines, and she’s flush against you now. You can’t think.

—

There’s so much to say.

She wants to tell Quinn everything: the feeling of emptiness, the space between her days, the distance.

Quinn shuffles through her LP collection.

She doesn’t say it’s not really hers. It’s got no story.

Her interior decorator chose them.

“Thank you,” Quinn says when Rachel gives her a glass of wine.

Quinn obviously chooses jazz, and she obviously knows how to operate the player.

Rachel drinks more out of habit than anything else.

—

It’s funny how Rachel lets you get away with everything.

She doesn’t even bat an eye when you choose an LP without asking her.

“This is a good one,” you hum, shuffling on your feet to the sax.

She kisses you.

She presses her body against yours softly and she kisses you.

You try not to die of shock; it’s when her hand rests on your nape, scratching and pulling the soft hair there, that you finally react.

Your lips slide together tentatively, and your hand rest on her waist as she kisses your upper lip, then your bottom lip.

Your breath is shaky – your heart is pounding on your ears – and she nibbles your lip, teeth pulling gently, until your lips part to her and she deepens the kiss.

The hand on the back of your neck becomes a little more forceful, a little more desperate, when her tongue enters your mouth. She finds your tongue and they rub against each other, slick and slow; you moan in her mouth and pull her closer to you.

It’s better than you had imagined.

—

It’s Rachel who starts and it’s Rachel who ruins it.

She bumps against the LP player, and the music comes to a screeching stop.

The kiss breaks spontaneously, and what’s left is Quinn and her, staring at each other.

Quinn’s lips are sore and red.

The realization of what she’s done finally gets to her, and Rachel panics.

She’s ruined the evening, their reconnection, she’s ruined everything.

She’s going to lose Quinn. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

—

Of course she’s sorry.

You’re not someone to be taken seriously in this, are you? Rachel just got carried away, that’s all.

You try to bury your heartbreak. She doesn’t need to see it. She doesn’t need to know.

“You got carried away.” You interrupt her, running a hand through your hair. “It’s okay.”

It’s not.

“Quinn, I—“ She tries, still breathless, but you place a hand on her shoulder and she stops talking.

You kiss her forehead. “I should go now.”

She doesn’t stop you.


End file.
